Teaching myself how to mourn

Even my tears remind me of you.

Of dangerously driven taxis in Ghana, with us chasing the morning sun. Then evening rudely cuts to the front of the line, dragging in air thick with melancholy after a day I can only name joy.

My hand, glued to your knee. The evening sun sharpens your dark skin and you glow. It reminds me of how mesmerized I was the night I first laid eyes on you. My tears betray me.

You take one look at me and cry too, wiping my tears with the one hand; holding my hand tight with the other.

I hate how you own so many of my memories, even these tears.


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